Classic and Contemporary Poetry
THE PHANTOM OF A ROSE, by THOMAS STURGE MOORE Poet's Biography First Line: Ah,' thought she, 'if there Last Line: Fused into the heart of light. Alternate Author Name(s): Moore, T. Sturge Subject(s): Ballet; Dancing & Dancers | ||||||||
"AH," thought she, "if there But one young man like this rose were Deep with crimson as ocean with green, With not one billowed petal flawed, With scent that dims the beauty seen With beauty known, till overawed The domineering eyes relent In the dark palace of mute scent, And, humid, vail before the throne Of sense more puissant than they own. With eyelids closed and blind heart fearless, Then would I yield to my prince Peerless. Oh that then were now!" she sighed And let her head nest in her hair Bunched on the back of the cushioned chair. And lo! incipient sleep replied.. Her rose sways, lifts from where she dropped it, Enlarges, floats as though ripples propped it. While visibly as on chill air breathing Fragrance transform to a rosy mist! Which halo-sphere befilms with wreathing Trails of pink and amethyst. The petals unaccountably, As a breeze may cling to a single tree Though all the wold around move not, Bestir themselves as each had got A separate soul. The smallest pair From out the centre upward jet, Poise and fold themselves on the air Till jaunty like a cap they set A little above four larger leaves That into a velvet doublet round. While, fallen and writhing on the ground, Two, as when caterpillar weaves Its sleep a hammock, are rolled, are turned.. Have their ends shaped by witchery Till crimson dancing pumps they be. That visible lucent atmosphere Solidifies: Young limbs appear Tapering down in green hose gloved! Warm blood informs that doublet red! Under short curls, see! daring eyes! Under that cap a well-thatched head! Her need has leapt, her heart has loved Ere he with doffed cap kneel to her. "Matter to thought is docile where, Beyond your senses' range, Lies the world from whence I come: There no intent is dumb, Hearts are express. To me seem strange, Grievous and comfortless Your dead walls ever as they were, Your disobedient furniture, And obdurate insensitive lies All tissues that disguise. Less than your flesh our webs immure Emotion, for to any hue, Chameleons of the soul, We flush apparel through, Our voices' luminous control, From song to whisper, can traverse Phases like those of the moon; And groups of friends converse As to a constellation wrought; While tenser than the tropic noon Glow hours when all are rapt in thought, And darkness is unknown, For always many muse alone. That world of light can heighten this, Make a rose lovelier; and it is The earth-bound heart's clear loyal will That sets our paradise athrill, Breaks into bloom the rarest scented, Or sends a butterfly contented Sailing cerulean-winged through trees Whose sap is a long life's victories." She ached to rise, she yearned to speak, She strove to smile, but proved too weak; As one who in quicksand neck-deep, Wild with the will, has no power to leap; Her limbs like a sunken ferry-boat Lay logged with sleep and could not float. She had danced too often at the ball, She had fluttered, nodded, and smiled too much. Tears formed in her heart: they did not fall. Her thought, pitying her, could not touch The spring of emotion; even a blush Failed her shame; her body hung Sullenly back like a dumb man's tongue. Hers, that had welcomed so many young eyes, Though this pair of them all she could least despise, Greeted him not: yet, unoffended, He rose, and danced a visible song; With rhythmic gesture he contended Against her trance, and proved so strong That the grapes of his thought wore the bloom of his mood While her soul tasted and understood. "Lay aside this weight! A rarer substance thou dost own, More refined. This is but a cumbrous gown That loads and thwarts a soul elate, And, ageing, disenchants the mind. Sweet one, thou art blind! Young, make thy escape, Ere touch less deft than Hope's have moulded Thee, and come Where desire is unfolded In fulfilling hue and shape, And life in nought is marred or dumb; Sweet, be venturesome! Single thou mayst do A greater deed than heroes who Strike tyrants dead: Or than the wise whose pains unlatch In Nature traps, and hold them wide, While they with shrewd description match The secret toil that throbs inside. Joy won and fled, Since men think not, when facing worse, On ills that courage erst made good; And those who most have understood Still front in ignorance Fate's curse; But those who on themselves turn round, Wrestle and win, transformed are crowned." All vanished: and she felt the strain Of the sense-impeded will Through every tissue wrench in pain; Then recover with a thrill As her phantom slowly came Steam-like from her nerveless frame. First a ghostly head and shoulders Where phosphorescence vaguely smoulders: Next, opal-misted bust, flank, loins; Then all that these to ankles joins; Last, twin soft air-treading feet. To itself that cloudlike form Seemed alone in a blank void, And lacked all thought of who might see it. But as it realized life's warm Likeness, and into beauty joyed The presence of that rose-begotten Youth, till then so far forgotten Flushed back.. And instant on her wish's track Came its fulfilment, sumptuous veiling Warm like air or water gliding Over her, round her, down her, hiding From neck to instep, and freely sailing Voluminous after her when she moved. Raising her lids, she first approved The fabric, which was finely rayed.. Argent frequent on violet, With seams outlined in beads of jet. Then hers sought his eyes unafraid. For admiration aptly gifted They join their hands and are uplifted; While down-distancing she perceives In reflex as from well's deep gloom Walled and narrow, her own room.. Her tiny bed, her glass, her press Open, and in it her ball-dress.. Her unknit figure over the chair In petticoat with corset loose; And, before its silken shoes, On the white floor-cloth a mere dot, The crimson rose, as dropped, lay there. She saw and knew these things had not Been real conditions of her life, But travesties born of a futile strife Between her faculties and will That wried the world perversely till She cried against it, and was heard In the flawless realm her soul preferred. Happy where we long to live, Clad by each glad thought, she in Different jacket, skirt, or snood, Strolls under trees where flowers give "Good-day" to her, though not one spin Or of the morrow ever think. Her neighbourhood takes her elation.. Nay, gives each mood due celebration; For flowering branches in that wood Smile blue which yesterday glanced pink While cups that were have become bells, And with their fashion changed their smells. Her dance is eloquent, and repose Distils fresh dew on all she knows. Then if she meet her friend, she sees His trees come gliding between her trees, When, sympathetic with their will, Beneath them heaven heaves in a hill; While his blooms twine their stalks with hers Till a holt form round them that is theirs In unique beauty. Distinct from his, Blossom and leaf and branch and stem, Not more like hers that plant-life is, But appropriate solely unto them. And glimpsed beyond its boscage lie Moutain, plain, sea-coast and sky; For theirs are friends of open heart, Leader, poet, saint and lover Who in that world from this recover.. Great natures, they health and thought impart, Shape and make grand The spirit's land, Are filled and fill with admiration, Create and are their own creation, Till adoring they unite, Fused into the heart of light. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...FAMED DANCER DIES OF PHOSPHORUS POISONING by RICHARD HOWARD ROSE AND MURRAY by CONRAD AIKEN A DANCER'S LIFE by DONALD JUSTICE DANCING WITH THE DOG by SUSAN KENNEDY SONG FROM A COUNTRY FAIR by LEONIE ADAMS THE CHILDREN DANCING by LAURENCE BINYON BEAUTIFUL MEALS by THOMAS STURGE MOORE |
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